


(just memories to hold)

by icosahedonist (teljhin)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Not Hockey Players (Hockey RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-23 21:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teljhin/pseuds/icosahedonist
Summary: Sid was unforgettable. Zhenya on the other hand—





	(just memories to hold)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squidbittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidbittles/gifts).



Zhenya stepped bleary-eyed off the bus with little more than his duffel bag and the smallest bubble of hope tucked deep inside himself. When he’d bought the bus ticket he hadn’t known where to go, only that he wanted to leave everything behind for a while. He’d asked for the ticket that would get him the furthest with what money he had left, so now—

Now here he was. He didn’t know where “here” was; he hadn’t asked. The morning was a dismal fog that smeared everything into grayness. He thought he heard faint splashing, like water nearby, but he didn’t smell salt or hear gulls, just songbirds and the smell of wet leaves slowly turning into earth. The few other people who’d disembarked with him were heading toward a building across the parking lot, so without any better ideas Zhenya followed along.

The building turned out to be something like a rest area, full of tired pamphlets and snack machines and a stack of local maps with one encased in a big glass frame on the far wall. Zhenya took a map and spread it out on one of the nearby tables. “Here” was the town of Edgewater, apparently, aptly named due to its proximity to a vast lake northeast of it. In the lake sat a nameless island, small but, if Zhenya was reading the legend correctly, possessing of a dock.

He wanted to go there.

“Why do you want to go there?” asked Kris, the owner of a motorboat just big enough to ferry them both across the lake. He was dressed rather neatly in warm woolens, his hair tidier than Zhenya imagined this job warranted. The question was fair but Zhenya heard a current of _something_ in his voice. Suspicion, maybe. Or anger.

Uncomfortable, Zhenya shrugged. “Want to see, want to… explore. Just go and look, yes?” It was the truth. Kris didn’t need to know the rest. It wasn’t his business.

Kris shook his head. Zhenya braced for a refusal, but Kris said, “If you want to go camping there, you can, but people live on the island. And.” He looked like something foul had crawled into his mouth and he was trying to suppress the fact. “I suggest you don’t stay more than a week.”

“Why?” Were the people there assholes? Could they not accommodate a single camper longer than that? But Kris just shook his head again and stated the boat fee, and further stated that his was the only boat that made the trip. Zhenya doubted that, but even so, he didn’t have the money to do much of anything.

Kris pointed him toward one of the two restaurants in town; they put him to work washing dishes and clearing tables, and by the end of the day he earned enough to eat and sleep with a roof over his head, and a little extra besides. Before he left the restaurant Zhenya got to talking with the owner, a man named Jaromir, about the island, and Kris. Of Kris he confirmed that he was the only one willing to take people over to the island. Of the island, Jaromir didn’t say much about it other than it wasn’t worth the hassle. When pressed he only offered a tight smile and directions to the local hostel.

The next morning he went back to Kris and handed over the boat fee, and together they got in Kris’s little motorboat and headed toward the island, Zhenya wondering all the while at why Kris was the only one _willing_ to make the trip.

The lake was silent save for the whir of the motor and the propeller slicing through the water, neither of which were especially loud. It was fitting: the air was saturated with fog, so dense that Zhenya fought down a fear that they were going to crash into the shore at any second, but Kris went slow and followed the small buoys that now and again flashed up through the mist. No birds sang in the trees; no insects chirped in the grass. The stillness itched at Zhenya’s skin, but still he wanted to see what was on the other side. He wanted to see the island for himself.

Soon enough, faint green and dark gray splotches arose from the fog: evergreens and their bare-limbed deciduous cousins stood like sentinels on the distant shore. Then came the dock, more grayness jutting out from the small sandy beach. They slowed to meet it, and when they were next to it, Kris began mooring the boat and helping Zhenya out.

“All right,” Kris said as Zhenya looked around. There was a path marked with wooden logs that went up into the trees; he’d start exploring there, see if he couldn’t find those island recluses Kris had mentioned. “I come here regularly at the same time of day. If you’re not here in a week, or before then, I’m leaving without you. Got it?”

“Okay, I know,” Zhenya replied, faintly irritated at Kris’s brusqueness. Whatever his deal was with this place, that was his business, and Zhenya was just as happy to stay out of it. But before Zhenya could wrangle the thought into words, someone came ambling out of the woods along the path.

“Hello!” called the man. He waved to them with an exceptionally toothy smile that Zhenya could see even from this distance. Beside him, though, Kris had stiffened up, and when Zhenya looked his way, Kris’s face had become hard as stone—and then was gone again, swallowed up into a bland, somewhat strained expression.

The man came up to them. He was about their height, skinny, with a warmth about him that made the toothiness of his smile less alarming and more easy-going. He shook their hands and introduced himself as Marc-Andre.

“We don’t usually get visitors here, so this is a nice surprise. Are you staying long?” He looked between them, his face open.

“No,” Kris said abruptly. “Or—well, he’s staying, I’m not.” He suddenly looked unsure of himself, struggling to find his words. He finally muttered, “Don’t forget what I said,” and untied the boat from the dock and sped back to town. The fog on the lake quickly and quietly erased his presence.

“You know him?” Zhenya asked.

Whatever the hell was going on with Kris, Marc-Andre seemed wholly unaffected by it. He chuckled, saying, “I think I would remember such a surly man if one came around. No. Come, let’s get out of this chill. If you’re staying, you’ll want to put your things away.”

Marc-Andre led him through the woods, a short trek that soon had Zhenya filling his lungs to the brim with each step. It calmed him: the sweet pine smell, the faint sounds of life in the trees, the soft crunch of pine straw and leaves under his feet. Whatever it was about this place that made Kris and Jaromir so wary had the opposite effect on Zhenya. He felt nothing but a growing sense of peace, a lightness that gently filled his little bubble of hope and made it into a wellspring.

They went inside a snug little log cabin, one of a few clustered together in a small clearing that had well-worn paths leading off on either side of it. They came into the kitchen, which was just as orderly as the rest of what Zhenya had seen of the house, and Marc-Andre motioned Zhenya over to the table.

The first thing Zhenya noticed about the man at the counter was the sheer breadth of him: he was stocky with muscle, his dark head bowed over whatever he was chopping up. When he turned around, Zhenya felt immediately arrested by the sight of him. The calm he’d felt earlier had evaporated just like that in the face of this ridiculously handsome man, and Zhenya had to mentally kick himself to stop gawking and start introducing himself.

“I’m Sid,” the man said, his voice a soft burr. His hand was strong in Zhenya’s, a little callused, and his smile had a charming crook to it that made Zhenya want to keep it all to himself.

“Evgeni, but—you say Zhenya.” 

“Zhenya,” Sid said slowly, as if testing it out in his mouth. “Is that like a nickname?”

“Yes. For friends.” He was getting ahead of himself, letting a beautiful stranger call him such, but he didn’t care. He thought—well, he _hoped_ —

The moment ended when Marc-Andre told Sid that Zhenya would be staying a while and needed a place to stay. Sid showed Zhenya to the tiny guest bedroom, pointing out the bathroom along the way, and said that he was welcome to join him for dinner at Marc-Andre’s house later that evening. Zhenya unpacked what few things he had and then decided to explore the island. Sid assured him before he left that he’d be hard-pressed to get lost on the island, so Zhenya bundled himself up and went out.

The day turned out to be rather warmer than he expected; he quickly shed his bulky sweater as he tromped through the trees, a thin layer of sweat coating his skin. Sid was right, the island was ultimately too small to get lost on. He made it to the other end of the island in about half an hour, so he wandered along some of the smaller paths that snaked off the main one. Little cabins popped up here and there, and Zhenya ended up saying hello to about half a dozen of the locals. As far as he could tell, no one was an asshole, so that was one theory easily debunked.

He showered when he got back, and as he was going back to his room, still dripping with naught but a towel around his waist, Sid emerged from his own bedroom into the hallway. The hallway was too narrow for two grown men to pass through cleanly, so they had to shuffle sideways past one another. Zhenya could have imagined the hitch in Sid’s breath as he slid by, but. Maybe not.

Dinner was a lively affair at Marc-Andre’s: his wife Vero was lovely, and their children Estelle and Scarlett were adorable. They all seemed to love Sid, who glowed like a candle every time one of them gently teased him about this or that—small things only, the kind of things that friends would affectionately hold against you forever. As the night wound down and they said their goodbyes, Sid and Zhenya strolled the pines to another clearing, one with a small playground and a gazebo and a swing that seated two.

Sid shucked his sandals and sat back in the swing with a sigh, hands over his belly; Zhenya sat beside him, their thighs touching, and he felt a cord of nervousness wind inside him suddenly. He didn’t know what to say. He hoped Sid would speak first.

“What made you come here? I can’t remember the last time anyone came for a visit,” Sid asked.

It took Zhenya a moment to speak. Going slow, he said, “I come here because… had fight with parents.” It shamed him to recall that day, to remember the words he’d spoken to them and all the ones he didn’t. He could picture it in his mind so clearly, his mother shocked and confused, his father going mulish—and why? Because he was a fool who made baseless accusations over things they hadn’t even _said_ , only what he had imagined they’d say. He had listened to the unreasonable voice in his head that told him they’d never understand him, they’d never _accept_ him for who he was, and who he _was_ , was…

Sid tentatively put his hand on Zhenya’s knee. “That must be hard for you.”

Zhenya let out the breath that was clogging his throat and nodded. “Yes. I know I say bad things to them, wrong things, maybe little bit hide now because I’m shame for say it. I go back soon, just…” He sighed gustily. “Just hard, like you say.”

“Whenever I’d fight with my parents, I couldn’t really hide from them. Island’s too small to get lost.” Sid laughed a little, tilting his face toward the sky. “It always seemed like such a big deal, too, but once we talked it over, it was just… really silly. It wasn’t ever anything we couldn’t fix.” He glanced Zhenya’s way. “I hope it’s the same for you.”

Zhenya squeezed Sid’s hand and fell silent. Not wanting to leave things on such a solemn note, he cast about for something lighter to say, and landed on an anecdote Marc-Andre told him earlier about Sid’s failed attempt to raise chickens. (“I didn’t know they could fly!” “Oh my god.”)

It was enough to get them laughing and trading funny little stories, which was all Zhenya wanted. After a while a lull came over them, easy as breathing, and Zhenya felt no pressing need to speak. The stars above, the night air sweet, and Sid beside him, barefoot and happy: suddenly it was everything Zhenya had been searching for. This place, this moment—it felt like fate, almost, some cosmic guiding hand showing him the way to this tiny, nameless community in the middle of nowhere. To this swing, gently creaking as they swayed.

To Sid leaning over and pressing his mouth against Zhenya’s in a quiet kiss.

Sid leaned back, and—beyond being a little awestruck—Zhenya marveled at the way that Sid seemed so open and easy to it. No, not seemed; Sid really was free to do what he pleased, which apparently included kissing Zhenya in front of—not that it was _wrong_ of him to do that, but. Outside the confines of the island, he’d fled from the world—fled from his own parents—because he feared they would shun him for this exact thing.

But here, now… Sid smiled his charmingly crooked smile. And Zhenya knew beyond all doubt and fear that there was nothing else here and now but this, so he leaned over and kissed Sid back.

When Sid wrapped his arms around Zhenya’s neck, he knew it all over again. And when Sid led him back inside the house, when Sid guided him down the hall, when Sid drew Zhenya into his room and shut the door—the world drifted away until all that was left was Sid’s touch, sure as fate bringing him here.

x - x - x

The week went by too fast. On the island, living in that bubble of happiness with a man who Zhenya knew he could love if given a chance (and he so wanted that chance)—it seemed a shame to leave it so quickly. But, as he assured Sid before he left to go wait for Kris at the dock, he’d be back. He needed to call his parents. He needed to begin to set things right with them, and he wouldn’t be able to do it from an island that got little to no cell reception.

When he got to the dock, someone else was there waiting: Mario, one of the locals he’d met earlier in the week. As he approached Mario turned and smiled at him, and said, “Did you enjoy your stay?” It was friendly enough, but Zhenya thought there was something vaguely teasing in the way he said it. He remembered Sid saying they were close, he and Mario, the older man being akin to a father figure, so it wasn’t for nothing that Zhenya stuttered out some affirmative and felt himself redden. But Mario didn’t press him, just nodded and went back to waiting, leaving Zhenya to stew in his own ridiculousness.

The distant sound of a motorboat cut through the calm of the morning; soon enough Kris was at the side of the dock with a large bundle tethered to the rear of the boat. Mario and Zhenya helped him get the bundle out of the water, and Zhenya didn’t imagine the strange look of relief on Kris’s face when they got back in the boat. Before they left, Mario passed Kris an envelope, and with that final bit of business conducted they took off for Edgewater.

A few minutes into the trip Kris said, “Hope your camping trip was good,” his words laced with a tenseness that suddenly set Zhenya on edge.

“Yes, was very good.” Then, feeling daring, he added, “I meet someone. Sid.” He looked behind him, trying to gauge Kris’s reaction, and his daring feeling turned sour at Kris’s expression: sad mostly, but also frustrated. He turned back around, his heart thudding in his chest.

“Are you going to go back there?”

Zhenya closed his eyes. “Yes. I want to.” Kris said nothing, and Zhenya spent the rest of the ride obsessing over that fraction of a conversation, listening to that awful voice in his head crowing about how it had been right, trying to fight it with a logic that felt battered and stale in the face of his overwhelming fear. He’d—he’d _outed_ himself, to his ride back to the island, to Sid, and he couldn’t take back his words, he couldn’t have just shut his mouth, because what business was it of Kris’s anyway?

It went on like that, on the trip that felt interminable, until they were at Edgewater and Zhenya was about to flee to who knows where. Before he could, though, Kris stopped him with a hand on his arm. Zhenya tried not to tense up, but must have failed because Kris immediately apologized.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I think I made you uncomfortable. I don’t want that.”

Zhenya nodded once and made to move away, but Kris continued on: “It’s just—you seem like a nice guy, and I don’t want you getting hurt or anything.”

His words made Zhenya pause; so it wasn’t exactly what Zhenya had feared, but that didn’t mean it made much sense. But the heavens decided to open up the floodgates at that particular moment, so they paused their conversation and sought shelter at Jaromir’s restaurant.

The man himself was behind the counter today, and when Kris handed over the envelope Mario had given him, Jaromir swiftly tucked it away in his apron. He offered them towels to dry off with and gave them bowls of chowder to warm them up. After they ate, Zhenya excused himself to a quiet corner and got out his cell phone.

 _Courage_ , he told himself as he listened to the phone ring. He rubbed at the pendants hanging beneath his shirt. _Please let it be okay, please, please—_

His mother’s staticky voice came through the phone, a worried lilt to it when she said, “Zhenya?” And just like that, his face threatened to crumble with the weight of all his emotions pressing down on him. She repeated his name, more insistent now, and he gasped out, “ _Mama_ ,” choking back the wave of tears that would surely rival the pouring rain outside. He felt—oh he felt so silly, because she didn’t even know what was truly the matter, then and now, yet she kept speaking to him in soothing tones, reassuring him of her love for him. He’d run away from her and Papa out of fear of what they’d think of him if they knew the truth about him, but just hearing her words of comfort gave him hope that those fears were baseless.

When he’d collected himself, he assured her he was fine. He was safe, he said, and had made friends with some of the locals. And he told her that they’d talk more when he came back home, which wouldn’t be too much longer now. He didn’t mention Sid or their relationship, but—he wanted to, and even from their brief conversation he felt better about the whole matter. It was something to build toward.

He scrubbed his face in the restroom afterward, then joined Kris and Jaromir at the counter again. The two of them were holding a silent conversation, a series of pointed looks and raised eyebrows, that Zhenya knew was never a good sign. Jaromir finally shrugged and went to wipe down the already clean tables at the other end of the diner.

“Look, Evgeni,” Kris started. He fiddled with his phone a moment as he visibly gathered nerves or words or both, his gaze casting about as if he could find them somewhere in the diner. When he spoke again, his words were very measured and slow.

“I have no doubt whatever you feel for Sid is real. He’s a good guy. But I don’t think you should get your hopes up too much.”

Zhenya scowled. Why the hell shouldn’t he? Sid _was_ a good guy, a _great_ guy, and the past week had been more than Zhenya had ever expected, in so many wonderful ways. And now Kris wanted him to give that up?

His expression must have said it all because Kris held up his hands and said, “I’m happy for you, really, but I wish things were different here. This storm…” Kris trailed off with a sigh.

“What about storm?”

Kris nudged his phone with his fingers. “They’re calling for heavy rain for the next couple of days. I’m not going to be able to take you to the island like this.” Kris gazed at him gravely, more serious than this situation surely warranted. “You’re determined to go back there.” It was half statement, half question. Zhenya nodded, and Kris sighed again.

Whatever was going on, Zhenya wouldn’t find the answers today. Kris told him he’d run his boat on the next clear day, then left the diner. Jaromir offered to give Zhenya work again, mostly odd jobs considering there weren’t too many customers, so Zhenya kept busy and solvent for a little while longer.

As predicted, the rain fell the rest of the day and most of the next. There were small interruptions, moments where Zhenya thought the worst had passed, but then the wind would pick up and the rain would continue to batter Edgewater to the brink of absolute saturation.

Two days after Zhenya left the island, the rain had dwindled to a sprinkle, a drizzle at most. He packed his duffel bag and went down to the dock, Kris already prepping his motorboat for a journey. He had another bundle tied to the boat, and when it and Zhenya were both settled, Kris steered them clear of the dock and made for the island.

The trip there was silent, much like last time, except now Zhenya felt the weight of something ominous creep ‘round his shoulders and the back of his neck. He tried not to think about it; whatever Kris wasn’t telling him was probably just a bunch of superstitious nonsense that he didn’t want to spell out because he knew deep down how absurd it was. Letting it get to him was pointless.

The island dock came into view, and a little ways down the shore stood a figure: Marc-Andre, Zhenya thought, as they got nearer. Just like last time, he waved to them once he spotted them, and came to the dock as they pulled up.

“Hello! Oh, let me help you with that,” Marc-Andre said as Zhenya handed him his bag, and together they dragged the bundle up onto the boards. “You’re carrying quite a load here.”

Kris piped up, “They’re supplies. Make sure they get to Mario.”

Marc-Andre nodded. To Zhenya he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Marc-Andre, it’s good to meet you. Are you staying long?”

Zhenya looked from Marc-Andre’s pleasantly happy face to his outstretched hand, then to Kris, whose face was drawn full of grim lines. Zhenya had never been in a car accident before, thankfully, but he wondered now if this was how it felt: seeing the impending hit, being unable to stop it, trying to brace yourself the best you could despite knowing it was going to hurt like hell.

“Where’s Sid?” Zhenya demanded. Marc-Andre seemed surprised, but told him Sid was in his house. He said something else too, maybe calling Zhenya to wait, but Zhenya didn’t hear. He was already marching up the path on a mission, hoping—or maybe _praying_ he was wrong, all of Kris’s little hints were wrong, that all the clues that added up to nothing until forced into a certain framework were just random, meaningless factoids, nonsense—

He prayed—

Zhenya found Sid sitting in his living room when he burst into the cabin. Someone else was there—Mario, perhaps—but Zhenya had eyes for Sid alone. Sid, for his part, looked rather startled, and let out an undignified squeak when Zhenya gathered him up in his arms.

Seconds dragged on and Sid didn’t hug him back. Zhenya waited a moment more, then held him out at arm’s length. Sid’s politely puzzled expression was the first crack in Zhenya’s heart. This wasn’t an elaborate hoax; this wasn’t superstitious nonsense. Because he knew Sid; it didn’t matter that it’d only been for a week, he _knew_ Sid wouldn’t do something like this to Zhenya.

He wouldn’t deliberately break his heart.

“Sorry, do I know you?” Sid asked, but to Zhenya the words were little more than another buzzing in his already ringing ears. It was—an impossibility, this couldn't be happening—

He blinked, and he found himself squinting in the weak sunlight. With a firm grip on his upper arm, Mario had at some point gathered up his bag and led him outside to the playground: breathing room, and a chance to react without potentially upsetting Sid.

“Are you with me, Evgeni?” Mario asked; Zhenya suspected he’d been asked that already. He nodded, and together they stepped inside the gazebo to sit down. Only Zhenya found he couldn’t sit down, he had too much restless energy, anxious energy, and he needed to _do_ something, or at the very least—

“You know? You know about…?” The words stuck in his throat, too massive with absurdity to be said.

Mario eyed Zhenya silently for a moment, weighing what he would say, perhaps. Then: “I know that most people who stay on this island begin to forget the outside world. I know that after a few days of separation, even loved ones become strangers for these people.” He looked down at his hands. He wasn’t a small man, but Zhenya thought he seemed it for a second. “I know that very few people escape that fate, and we have no way of knowing who will and who won’t. I suspect it’s something genetic,” he added with a wry smile, “but no one’s tested it.”

Zhenya closed his eyes. There it was: confirmation of a truth he’d seen only in his peripheral vision. Now he could look at it head on. The only problem was, he didn’t know what to do.

Sid had forgotten him. Just a few days apart was all it took to be erased from Sid’s mind. The how didn’t matter, but the loss—the frustration and sadness of knowing that a host of memories made between them lived only in him now, that Sid wasn’t a part of that reality in the same way Zhenya was—

It was hard to take in. Hard to see a future where their only choices were Zhenya living on the island, possibly forgetting his parents and his whole life outside unless he was _maybe_ one of the lucky ones, or stealing, what was it, a week at most? A week at a time together, and heaven forbid injury or inclement weather happened or else—back to square one. And what sort of life would that be? Zhenya couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Maybe this is breaking a confidence, but,” Mario said quietly, interrupting Zhenya’s thoughts, “I believe he wouldn’t mind, if he knew.” He took a minute. When he spoke, it was with full certainty in his words. “He’s cared for many people over the years, but the way he talked about you… It’s different, Evgeni. You were—you _are_ different to him. He doesn’t give his heart away so easily, he’s not that type.”

Zhenya swallowed back the lump in his throat. Hoarsely he said, “Thank you. But.” But he couldn’t live like a thief in Edgewater. He couldn’t walk away from his own life. He could love Sid, he knew it—but.

Everything he left unsaid felt like stones weighing him down.

Mario sighed softly and stood up. Together they walked out of the playground, toward the far end of the island. Away from the dock, and Sid.

At the threshold to Mario’s house, Mario said, “I’ve known Sid all his life. I’ve watched him grow from a good kid to a good man. He deserves more than this island can give him. If there were a chance… would you take it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Zhenya rasped. “But how… how I can…”

Mario didn’t answer him. Instead he showed him to a small guest room, advised him to get some rest, and left Zhenya alone to grieve.

The next morning he took the boat back to Edgewater. Kris said nothing on the ride; Zhenya knew what he’d say anyway. In town, he bought a bus ticket back home. It wouldn’t be for another few hours, so he stopped by the restaurant to while away the time. Jaromir said nothing either, just tilted his head in acknowledgment and kept him in coffee.

He’d be all right. He had one good week of memories inside him that would never be taken away. It was hard, and it’d be hard for a while, but it wouldn’t pain him forever.

The bell above the door rang. A second later, Jaromir bit out, “ _You asshole_ ,” in Czech.

Zhenya looked up at Jaromir, who was glaring daggers at whoever had just come in. Zhenya turned around and saw Mario standing there, a sheepish expression on his face. He glanced Zhenya’s way, ignoring for a moment the way Jaromir’s muttered invectives were picking up both volume and depth of expression, and with deliberate mildness said, “You don’t want to miss your bus, Evgeni.”

Confused, Zhenya said, “My bus not here yet, it’s one hour…”

“Evgeni.” Mario raised his eyebrows. “Don’t miss your bus.”

Zhenya left the diner and the ensuing commotion to find that, sure enough, his bus wasn’t outside waiting for him.

However—

“Hi. Um, are you Evgeni?” Sid asked, fiddling with the straps of his backpack. Dumbfounded, Zhenya stared at him, unsure whether to believe what he was seeing. His heart beat double time in his chest, he felt ten different emotions at once, and all he could do now was stare, stare at Sid staring back at him, drink in his presence and _hope_ —

“It’s just,” Sid began to babble, something Zhenya had learned was a habit of his when he got nervous or flustered, “Mario said I’d be meeting a guy here who’d show me around—uh, I have my ticket…” He fished around his pockets, and Zhenya couldn’t stand it.

“ _Yes_ , I’m Evgeni. But… but you say Zhenya.”

Sid paused in his search for his ticket. “Oh. Zhenya.” He said it slow. “Is that a nickname?”

“For friends,” Zhenya echoed. And Sid’s resulting tentative smile was everything all over again, because this might not have been fate, precisely, but a second chance was more than he could have hoped for.

“Oh!” Sid stuck out his hand. “I’m Sid, by the way.”

Zhenya didn’t bother fighting off his grin as he took Sid’s outstretched hand, familiar in his own hand once more. “I know.”


End file.
